


Game of Riddles

by Altenprano



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altenprano/pseuds/Altenprano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after the Sherlock's death, John returns to the site of his friend's burial to find a letter from someone who says she can figure out how he faked his death.  She proposes a game: She figures out how he did it, and he figures out who she is. John takes it into his own hands to figure out who she is, with hopes that she could tell him how his friend faked the fall, and maybe give him hope that his friend is alive. Not JohnxOC, promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game of Riddles

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Sherlock. That belongs to BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do, however, own BH.

"It's been three years," Watson muttered, shaking his head as he entered the cemetery, cane in one hand and a bouquet of lilies in the other.

This was easily the third time this week that he'd visited his friend's grave, all in the vain hope that it wouldn't be there. It was almost as if he kept forgetting the day when Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, had jumped to his death from the roof of St. Bart's, as if it were nothing more than a bad dream. 

Everyone told him that Sherlock was dead, that he wasn't coming back, but John didn't want to believe them. He left everything of Sherlock's just where it had been, in case the detective returned. There was three years of dust clinging to nearly everything-- his violin, his clothes, and even the skull that sat on the mantle. He'd thrown out his ex-flatmate's "experiments," but only because other residents were complaining of their potential to become hazardous, and even that had been with some reluctance. 

And yet, here he was again, still with the silly notion that his friend would return. "It's been three years, John," he said bitterly. "Sherlock is dead. You were there. You saw him jump. You felt his pulse. _He is dead_." He set the flowers in front of his friend's final resting place, expecting to feel the soft grass that covered his friend like a blanket, only to feel something smooth. 

Confused, Watson looked down and saw a pristine white envelope crushed underneath his flowers. Carefully, he bent down and picked it up, searching for an address and return address. All he found, written in neat print, was a name. 

_Mr. Sherlock Holmes_

His hands began to shake as he slipped the letter into his coat pocket. Who could've written to Sherlock? Didn't they know he was dead? All these questions welled up inside his mind as he turned his back on the grave and headed back to Baker Street. 

*~*~*~*

When he finally made it back to 221B, John settled himself on the sofa, pulled out the letter, and inspected it once more, looking for a return address. Finding none, he decided to open it, hoping for some kind of clue. 

_Mr. Holmes,_

_I know you're still out there...somewhere, and I know you were real, that Moriarty was real, and you were never a fake. I believe in you, Sherlock, and I know Dr. Watson does too._

_Very clever of you, faking your death and all. Also very nasty. Did you even think about poor Dr. Watson? What about Dr. Hooper? And -- yes, really--Detective Inspector Lestrade? Really Mr. Holmes, what you lack is common sense. Or at least forethought._

_Anyways, I know you're still alive. There are too many ways that you could have pulled it off, and, so I don't sound completely idiotic, I am keeping them to myself. There are people on the inside involved, though, and I'm determined to find out how you did it, and who helped you._

_My parents say I'm crazy, deciding to look for you, to prove that you're still alive, but someone's got to do it. You may not care, but there are those who look up to you, who aspire to be like you are, smart and all, but also as bold. You are a brave man, especially to have acted as you did, with a level head no less, when Moriarty played his games with you and with the Yard. To those like me, you are a hero, and heroes do not die. I know I'm not as attentive to detail like you are, Mr. Holmes, nor am I the patient type, but I have my own ways to solve this mystery._

_To make this interesting, not only for me, but for you (it must be so boring, playing dead!)I shall pose a challenge. You using your methods, and me using mine, there should be a bit if competition between us, eh? I'll find out how you did it, and you find me. If you find me first, you win, but if I find out how you faked your death, leaving the Yard in an unusual (and very very scary) silence, I win, and I tell Dr. Watson._

_Until then, well, I don't think I'll be doing much else. While I'm not one for running all over the place, I'm always one for an adventure (especially if it means my intelligence is safe from a certain imbecile). If you have any interest in this game, Mr. Holmes, leave the answer at your supposed resting spot by Saturday at noon._

_I still believe in you, Sherlock._

_BH_

_P.S. What force and strength cannot get through, I with a gentle touch can do; and many in the streets would stand, were I not, as friend, at hand_

John read and reread the letter, trying to make sense of what the writer of the letter was saying? Was she-- it was definitely a she, if the tone was any indication-- challenging his friend's talent of deduction? The bit about "telling Dr. Watson" caught his eye, and an idea began to form in his mind. 

He would find this BH, whoever she was, and follow her quest to figure out how Sherlock had done it, if he had. No one could survive that fall, but if this young woman-- she mentioned her parents, so she had to be young-- thought he could've, John had no reason to assume otherwise. After all, Sherlock was not an ordinary man. 

He glanced at the corner of his laptop's screen, checking the day of the week. Friday. Less than one day to answer this girl's riddle.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this! I hate begging for reviews, but since it's my first, please leave a review?


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